a page from the diary...

I love her. I don’t know how or when did it happen. There are a myriad things i don't know about...my shout...my undeserved clout...my ego bout...the vapid night out..

I have another confession to make, I don’t like defining things, so don’t expect my writings to have many names. I personally don’t like names. They are so damn mundane, banalities of a well defined world, where everything is tagged, priced and sold. Well for some the date itself is auspicious; I have no particular fascination I must say with any kind of detail or definition.

I love digressions, which I guess is a natural result of the whims of my capricious mind. Love is also a definition, some would argue. Love is a denial of individualism, when else does a man or woman deny their capacity to sustain themselves without each other. I see love in a different light though, for me it captures the essence of what I aspire to be
, I fall in love with what I aspire.

I must tell you something else…I don’t take my love to bed…I essentially sleep alone. Somehow sleep is the only reality I understand…the only reality I can define…I find it synonymous to death…which is certain…inevitable. Should I say I like going to sleep, but not if I haven’t deserved it.

I like getting tired before I retire, it gives me form, fulfillment and a definition I can live with, probably the only one I can live with that I am tired.

I am no achiever and I don’t dream. The fact that you read this is simply because I found writing exhaustive. Getting tired can be challenging…and you know it.

This ain’t my story, for I gave up myself long back.